Dressed for Dinner
by Mingsmommy
Summary: Prentiss and Rossi are looking forward to a night alone together, but things seldom go according to plan.


Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds or any of its characters. I am making no money. Believe me._  
_Thanks: Smacky graciously betaed this for me on very short notice; she really is one of a kind. She betaed, but I messed with it afterwards, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. I also want to thank Kristen Elizabeth for the help with a food tutorial and Doris for the read-through of the first section.

This is a my first foray into this fandom; I have become completely obsessed with this pairing in a short amount of time. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

They're both still naked from round one when her doorbell rings. They've been sharing deep and languorous kisses, doing a lazy warm up for round two since Prentiss ended the call for take-out some thirty minutes before.

His breath blows across her face as he lets out a gusty sigh. "I suppose the gentlemanly thing to do is to say I'll go."

He sees her smile at the grumble in his voice; they both know he _is_ too much of a gentleman to do anything else, and just old fashioned enough not to want her to go to the door looking quite so thoroughly, well…screwed. She plays along anyway. "Hello? Naked here."

"Hello?" he mimics back. "Equally as naked here." But he's already tugging on his jeans, eyes searching for the black t-shirt he had been wearing under his dress shirt.

She twists in the sheets, managing an artful, if accidental, draping of her nude body, dark hair cascading over the cream colored sheet. Her eyes are large and luminous and it's all he can do to not say "screw dinner" and climb back into bed with her. Instead he continues to grouse as he buttons his pants. "We should have just given them a credit card over the phone and told them to leave the food at the door."

Still smiling, she watches him zip his fly. "Rossi," her voice is all but a purr, "Quit complaining and I'll make it up to you after you feed me." He likes it when she's relaxed and confident enough to indulge in intimation steeped in a suggestive tone.

He grabs his shirt from the crumpled pile of clothes on the floor of her bedroom and frowns at the carpet fuzz spotting it. But then the memory of the hunger on her face when she peeled it off him makes his lips quirk. "Holding you to that, Prentiss." He leans down and presses a wet kiss to the curve of her shoulder, deliberately prickling his goatee against her as he does so. Then he's out the door, pulling his t-shirt on as he heads down the stairs and the doorbell rings again.

They eat out so much on the road that they both usually prefer to cook when they're home. But, Paul Schultz, a sick son-of-a-bitch who specialized in kidnapping, raping and disfiguring nursing students in Wisconsin, had escalated in a short period. They caught him, but it's been three and a half weeks since they've been alone together and taking time out to go to the grocery store and cook would probably break him, maybe break them both. So much easier, so much more satisfying, to follow her home, kiss her up the stairs and tumble her into bed.

There are rules; the first, and most important being nothing personal on the job. They're both scrupulous about following that one. Even when their hotel rooms are right next to each other, they don't risk even a finger brush. The people they work with are very smart and more than observant, so they are beyond careful about maintaining personal space and professional boundaries.

But nearly a month without the weight of Emily Prentiss in his arms, the taste of her on his mouth, the touch of her hands on his skin, the feel of her legs wrapped around him has made him more fully understand addiction and withdrawal. _I need to tell her that,_ he thinks; how missing making love to her is helping him further understand the behavior and motivation of addicts, just so he can listen to her laugh out loud. He loves to make her laugh. He thinks he'll wait until his arms are wrapped around her again, so he can feel the laugh move all the way through her body and into him.

Yes, a home cooked meal would have been good, but not worth the time away from the flavor of her skin. They'll cook tomorrow or maybe the next day. Tonight, dinner is delivery from the Indian restaurant three blocks over. They've both had better chutney, but she really loves the chicken makhni with garlic naan, and he thinks their curries are some of the best he's ever had.

The peephole reveals the kid who makes the deliveries for _New Dehli Deli_. He's sixteen at the most and isn't from India or DC. He's actually Iranian and has an obvious crush on Emily. Well, it's obvious to Rossi but Emily refuses to see it. The boy flushes when he sees her and beams when she addresses him in Farsi. _When he sees me answer the door and Emily's nowhere in sight, that's going to be one disappointed young man,_ Rossi thinks as he smoothes his beard with one hand and grabs the door handle with the other.

Rossi gets exactly what he's expecting: a paper bag of fragrant Indian food and a crestfallen young man, despite a generous tip (because Rossi is a generous guy and he knows the disappointment of not getting to see Emily when he's expecting to). When he turns to go back in, Rossi gets something he's _**not**_ expecting: the sight of a black limousine pulled up to the curb, with Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss being helped from the back by her driver.

Hotch had actually introduced them years ago at some social function. Dave doesn't think she would remember him, but whether she does or not is fairly irrelevant, considering she's already sized him up...bare feet, untucked shirt, mussed hair. She might not be able to guess his exact age, but he she's gotta be in the ballpark and she's well aware he's not here playing _Trivial Pursuit_ with her little girl. Her forehead twitches briefly as her brows raise, but then her face smoothes out completely, polite mask in place. She tugs the hem of her suit jacket down and begins an elegant walk up the path to Emily's door and he is really hoping he doesn't smell as much like sex as he's afraid he does.

He hears the water running upstairs and he knows Emily's in the master bath washing up; probably with the door closed. No point in calling out a warning.

David Rossi has faced down serial killers and madmen; he's dealt with the psychotic, the sick, the evil, and he's well aware nothing requires finesse and tact from a man quite as much as the parent of a woman he's currently bedding. Considering two out of three of his former mothers-in-law still send him cards at Christmas, he doesn't think he's done too badly. Of course, he was a little better prepared to meet them than this and the third ex-mother-in-law now lives in Louisiana for the specific purpose of regularly petitioning a Vodun houngan to curse him.

"Ambassador Prentiss," he says very pleasantly as she approaches.

She smiles, but it's stiff and forced; she either wasn't expecting him to know who she was or she thought he'd begin on the defensive. "I'm afraid you have the advantage on me." One perfectly shaped eyebrow quirks. "I don't believe we've met."

"Actually," he replies smoothly, "we have. But it was a long time ago." He's watching her and damned near laughs out loud; her face is not nearly as expressive as Emily's but, in its own way, more telling. He'd be willing to bet the royalties from his next book she's trying to figure out who he was and how she had missed his ties to Emily when she met him.. Explaining that he actually met her years before he met her daughter doesn't help his case, so he doesn't elaborate; he simply shifts the bag of food from his right arm to his left and offers his hand. "David Rossi."

"Mr. Rossi." Her fingers are cold and the handshake is perfunctory. "I hope you'll forgive my lapse. Could you refresh my memory?"

He doesn't tell her to call him Dave; Mr. Rossi will do just fine for now. "Like I said, it was a long time ago." The paper bag crinkles as he motions toward the door. "Emily's upstairs. Why don't you come in?"

She bristles minutely, but visibly, and he's not sure if it's because he's so completely ignored her request for clarification or because he has the presumption to invite her into her own daughter's home. Either way, he's managed to rattle her just a little without being impolite. He doesn't want to antagonize, but he's also not going to apologize for being in Emily's life. Ambassador Prentiss hasn't exactly been someone Emily seems to feel she can lean on. What he and Prentiss have together may not have definition or last forever, but they're there for each other and that's no cause for shame; it's dear and rare and he treasures it.

Telling himself not to take up arms quite so quickly, he sets the bag on the counter and turns to the Ambassador. He nearly offers her a beer knowing full well she wouldn't accept because it's just too casual, too friendly. Besides, he's not sure what Emily has in the refrigerator; taking a beverage inventory was not the thing upper most on his mind when they had come through the door. He had, however, brought a bottle of wine knowing they would be having dinner at some point. "Could I offer you a glass of wine?" He's picked up the corkscrew before she has a chance to decline and begins removing the foil.

Both her eyebrows climb into her forehead at his movements, either surprised or affronted at his ease in Emily's home. He's amused to see he doesn't measure up in her eyes; she's judged him on his appearance, (which he admits is not up to his usual standard) and his accent (slightly snotty of someone who has traveled the world, he thinks). As he sets the point into the cork and makes a mental note to get Emily a better corkscrew, he wonders how much Elizabeth Prentiss's opinion would change if she knew what his bank balance was. It doesn't make him a better man or make him any more worthy of Emily, but he's idly curious about how much that would sway the good ambassador. Dave Rossi knows he's no one's ideal mate, just ask that Vodun priest, but it's Emily's choice to be with him, not her mother's.

Watching him pull the cork from the bottle, she finally speaks. "I don't mean to put you to any trouble." Her words are polite, pleasant and empty.

Setting the cork aside, his reply is just as pleasant, just as empty. "It's no trouble at all." Turning to the cabinet, he pulls down three wine glasses and wishes he could warn Emily. He's afraid of how she'll react when she comes downstairs and finds her mother and her lover having a glass of wine. It's hard, but he admits it's not just being afraid of how she'll react to the surprise of her mother, but that _she_ might care he isn't good enough in her mother's mind.

"So, Mr. Rossi," she says his name like it's a cheap motel, "what's your profession?"

Prentiss hasn't talked about her mother a lot, but the few things she's said have been weighted and a little sad. _"I think being a diplomat made her care more about how things look than how things are."_ One look at the perfectly turned out Elizabeth Prentiss, with the extra stiffness in her spine and coldness in her eyes, and he thinks Emily's assessment is probably accurate.

His lips purse as he hands her a glass of wine. "I'm a writer." He supposes he could have said he was a musician if he wanted to completely horrify her, but decides since a dossier on David Rossi will likely be sitting on the ambassador's desk tomorrow afternoon, he does need to stick to the truth, if not the whole truth. The omission does have him smirking into his glass, amused at his own mischief.

"A writer?" He can tell she's trying to show interest, to see how much information she can gather, but she can't quite hide the distance in her voice. "That's fascinating." The word fascinating is tinged with the same tone one might use to discuss a pit viper. He lets some of his amusement show on his face and gestures toward the living room.

Her carriage is much more confident than Emily's, regal almost. Prentiss is only ever completely confident immersed in a case or here with him, and that last has been hard earned. The ambassador seats herself and silence fills up the room. Briefly, he contemplates turning on the stereo but over the years he's learned the difference between quiet and silence; he often uses the power of silence and wonders how much diplomacy has also taught her the same. Or does being diplomatic require filling in the spaces created by silence?

"I'm sorry to drop in unannounced," she says after a moment and it takes all his self control to keep his lips from quirking; filling the spaces, then. "I was in town unexpectedly and hoped to catch Emily at home."

_Oh, you caught her all right_, he thinks, but he doesn't follow the thought.

Evidently, she's decided he's not going to carry his conversational weight, so she continues to fill up the space with words about her unexpected trip home. As she supplies him with the general details of why she's even in the country, much less in DC, she's very obviously sizing him up, and even though he doesn't particularly like her, he can see where Emily gets at least part of her intelligence and powers of observation. Her eyes dart to his left hand and she relaxes minutely when she sees it's bare. That pisses him off a little; not because she thinks he could be that kind of guy (she appears to have already gone down that road) but because she could think Emily would sleep with a married man. Or maybe it's because she was afraid Emily might be married _to him._

The key to maintaining control of any situation is maintaining control over your emotions. David Rossi knows this. So, he pretends not to notice. Instead, he watches the as the ambassador finally takes a sip of the wine. She makes a small, appreciative noise. Lifting the glass, she raises it to the light, eyeing the color. "This is nice."

"A gift to Emily from one of her coworkers," he supplies and watches her fight against clenching her teeth at his gall. At this point, he's not sure why he's baiting her. She hasn't done anything overtly offensive, and as for what's gone on between her and Emily in the past, well, that's none of his business. Doesn't stop him from enjoying himself, though.

There's movement on the stairs and they both look up as Emily's bare legs come into view. "Oh my god, the food smells amazing. I'm starving." The rest of her appears as she speaks, and Rossi knows he has it bad when a hot spike of pure lust drives its way through him at the sight of her in his black dress shirt, even though he is standing in the home of someone he shouldn't be sleeping with for a myriad of professional, as well as a few personal, reasons, more or less busted by her very uptight mother. The shirt hits her just about mid-thigh and despite the fact that the situation is precariously close to critical mass he can't help but wonder _panties or no panties?_

"Hello, Emily," Elizabeth says silkily and Emily blinks twice, as if her eyes can't possibly be showing her what's in front of her. He sees the possibilities fly across her face in rapid succession: _Dream? Hallucination? Concussion?_ Her eyes widen and her mouth opens and she looks at him and he looks back, giving her a cross between a reassuring nod and a "fuck if I know" shrug.

"Mother?" Her voice is incredulous as she comes off the stairs and hesitantly crosses to the sofa. For a second it looks as if she's going to bend to kiss her mother, but the ambassador rises and wraps her arms around Emily, pressing a kiss to her cheek and Rossi is robbed of the opportunity to answer the question of the panties.

Hearing her mother whisper something that sounds to Dave like a suggestion to go put on "more appropriate clothes" causes Emily to stiffen for a minute, but then she surprises him by relaxing and when she draws back and smiles at her mother, he is more than surprised at the calm she exudes when she replies, "It's fine, Mother. I don't need to change."

_Panties, then,_ he nods to himself.

"We're in for the night and I'm comfortable." The ambassador is clearly _not_ comfortable, but Emily turns toward Rossi even though she's still speaking to her mother. "You met Dave?"

"I've been informed we've already met, though not when?"

There's no mistaking the hint of frustration under her polite words and he sees Prentiss give a quick, wide smile. "That's right, I forgot." Not giving her mother time to press, she indicates the wine glass in his hand. "Is there one of those for me?"

He starts. He'd been so intent on studying his lover and her mother, he'd completely forgotten. "Sorry," he murmurs and goes into the kitchen to retrieve the wine he had poured for her earlier. When he puts the glass into her hand, their fingers make contact and linger, and her eyes are warm when she thanks him. Now, he finds himself barely paying attention to the older woman, he is so astonished by how very calm Emily appears. He's not sure if she's acting or she really isn't unnerved, he just knows he's underestimated her again. She's not being rebellious or defiant, but she's not ashamed or too embarrassed, either; she's confident and comfortable, and that's a thing of beauty.

Emily sips her wine and turns back to her mother as she seats herself on the sofa, leaving enough room for him on her other side. Instead of sitting, he moves back to the kitchen and brings the wine bottle into the room and places it on the table in front of them as Emily pushes back her hair. "I thought you were in Kuwait?"

There's the beginning of a bruise on the pale skin of her neck just above the collar of his shirt and he has to bite his lip; he really needs to be more careful. If they didn't have the next few days off, he would be in serious trouble here.

"There was an unexpected call to come home for a meeting; nothing dire, thankfully. Actually a possibility for some progress in some other areas for once; we'll just have to see." Her eyes flick over to Dave, then back to Emily's face. "I'm sorry to drop in without calling. My meeting ended much earlier than anticipated and I hoped to take you to dinner."

"Oh, that was sweet of you to think about me, but—"

"You're already in for the evening, I know." The ambassador's voice is dry and actually shot through with genuine humor. Despite himself, Dave is impressed; she's not a diplomat for nothing. She's recovered remarkably from an awkward situation and even visibly relaxed a bit. "We'll just _plan_ a dinner sometime, how about that?"

Then Emily is looking at him with those beautiful dark eyes that she got from the woman currently sitting beside her and he knows what she's silently asking. The smell of the curry has completely permeated the air around them and the wine has mellowed him considerably and really, when she looks at him like that he's pretty much a goner, anyway.

"Ambassador Prentiss, why don't you have dinner with us?" Her eyes widen slightly when he issues the invitation. It's the first sign of uncertainty he's seen from her, and he suddenly, clearly, sees trace of Emily that go beyond physical resemblance beneath the polite and professional polish.

Her gaze turns to Emily and he likes the way it softens just a bit. "Oh, no…I couldn't." But it's clear she wants to.

"There's more than enough." Rossi is already in the kitchen washing his hands. "The delivery boy is smitten with Emily and always manages to add extra to the order. I think he's trying to work his way into her heart with chicken makhni."

"Dave!" Emily laughs, flushing lightly, beautifully, and screw the Iranian delivery boy from the kitschily named Indian place, it's David Rossi that is thoroughly and completely smitten. She can sit with her mother in her lover's shirt and not flick an eyelash, but hint a teenaged delivery boy has a crush on her and she's embarrassed and uncomfortable. He's smiling as he dries his hands and begins pulling the containers out of the bag.

"Oh, this is nothing new for her," her mother speaks conspiratorially, standing up and shedding her suit jacket. "There was a young chef's assistant at the consulate in Greece that she always charmed into giving her the largest dessert." With a flourish that clearly speaks of teasing, she drapes the jacket over the back of one of the stools at the breakfast bar.

Sadly, Rossi shakes his head, pulling three plates down from the cabinet. "Trading your affections for baklava? I'm really quite disillusioned, Emily."

Prentiss rolls her eyes as she joins him in the kitchen, pulling out silverware and serving pieces. "I was eight," she huffs.

"Ah, a young siren," he sighs. "That's worse."

Lightly smacking his bicep, she admonishes him, "Be nice." Then she briefly leans her forehead against his shoulder in easy and obvious affection, and he automatically presses a quick kiss to the top of her head, forgetting her mother is watching them until, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the ambassador smile.

Dividing the food onto the plates with Emily's help, he begins asking the older woman about Kuwait City and her life there. Over dinner he turns on the full force of the David Rossi charm, and she's actually looking at him with, if not approval, then enjoyment by the time he's opened a second bottle of wine. He can see from the expression on Emily's face that she's torn between being pleased and being amused; either way, she's happy and that's a good thing.

An hour later, he's Dave and she's Elizabeth and she's laughed four times. Emily's eyes are warm and her expression is soft. Two hours later, Elizabeth is leaving with an extracted promise for both of them to join her for dinner at her home when she's scheduled back in the country the following month. An hour after that, he's still trying to catch his breath with a very smug Emily, still dressed in his shirt, draped over his chest.

He was wrong. No panties.

He's really _got_ to quit underestimating her.


End file.
